


Liar Liar

by Sophia_Bee



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan is a liar</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liar Liar

He lies.

He lies to the man sitting across the table wearing the ill-fitting brown uniform. He smirks, liking the way it makes his interviewer jump a little, shift in his chair. He lies about why he was there that night, not really able to remember the pain the stabbed through his chest, not wanting to bring up the name that whispers through his dreams every night. He lies, tells them he hates those people, hates their skin that is browner than his, the way they don’t seem to know that they are lesser. He tells him that he would hurt them if he could. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. But only he knows that and he’ll never let the man across the table get a hold of that inner secret.

Meaninglessness has become a way of life.

He lies to Veronica. Pretends he doesn’t watch the way she walks down the hall, trace the nape of her neck with his eyes, can still feel her lips on his. He never looks at her until she speaks but he can feel her near him, burning up the oxygen between them. He can feel her disgust, the way her eyes bore into him, challenging him telling him that she knows…. But he never can grasp what she knows, it floats just out of reach and somehow, if he could reach out and hold it in his hands, maybe it could save him.

He lies again, tells himself that nothing will save him. Not even her. Never her.

School is a stage, a set where he pretends to be okay. It’s the role of a lifetime and sometimes Logan wonders if there are awards given for the best imitation of a life.

At night he sits in the empty living room, counting the empty beer bottles left on the coffee table, watching the way the darkness is never black but strange shades of grey thrown up against tbeige walls. It’s raining outside, a strange, steady drip, drip, drip. It never rains in Neptune. Everything is monotone, colorless in the dim light and the only thing that distracts him is the flickering of the television, another late night infomercial featuring a perky smiling co-host and an enthusiastic audience.

He watches television until his eyes are drooping and he can’t hold back yawn after yawn. He watches old kung fu movies and reruns of sitcoms featuring overly loving families and unrealistic problems. No one murders their son’s girlfriend. No one jumps off a bridge. No one is framed for something they didn’t do. No one is raped. Everything is fixed in thirty minutes, including commercials. Fathers love their sons. Mothers never die.

He lies, tells himself that he doesn’t miss his mother.

Sometimes when he wakes up he pretends she’s still there. She’s going to greet him with pancakes and bacon and a warm kiss on the cheek. He stays buried in the comforter, a pillow over his head, holding onto his half woken dreams until he realizes that he’s confused his mother for one of those sitcom versions, smiling, cheerful, perfect on the inside and the outside. Sitcom mothers never sip on an early morning martini while they stare out the window, wondering when their husband might come home. Sitcom mothers never pass out in the afternoons. Sitcom mothers love their son enough to never leave him.

He never thinks of his father. He doesn’t have a father anymore. He wonders if he ever had one in the first place. Sometimes he pretends he came to be during a quick fuck after a training session, pretends it was a handsome pool cleaner or willing plumber who came to the house for an emergency. Maybe he’s out there. His real father. Not the one who bashed in the skull of Logan’s girlfriend and left her to bleed to death on hard, cold concrete.

Lying is second skin. He wears the lies like a well-tailored suit, like the one he wore to Lilly’s funeral, the one that made him itch. Tears hung on the edges of his eyes that day, threatening to spill over, but somehow he managed to hold it back, hold it together, all for her, the love of his life. The suit hangs in his closet, a reminder of what he’s lost. He hopes moths will find it, nibble away at the fine, soft wool, make some holes in the illusion that Logan carried with him. The illusion that she might have loved him.

Lilly was the queen of the lie, the bitch that built up a delusion that Logan bought, wanting to be loved more than wanting the truth. Lilly destroyed truth for him, disassembled it piece by piece until he was left with nothing but lies.

He lies to himself. Tells himself that he’s okay. Tells himself that he doesn’t need anyone, that he doesn’t need her, that the ache in his chest is something besides an ache of loss and loneliness. He never loved her. Never needed a mother. The belt on his skin built character. He’s the American dream, poor little rich boy untethered from everything that held him back.

Everything that gave him meaning.

Veronica looks at him with pity now, and something else he can’t put a finger on, something that makes him hurt if he stares into her eyes too long. She grabs his hand and pulls him away from the babbling twit sitting next to him just before he unleashes all the anger and frustration onto her unsuspecting, soft little mind.

He hates the twit. That’s not a lie.

He likes the way his hand feels in hers, even for the five seconds it takes for her to pull him onto the dance floor. He likes the way her arms feel around his neck, and if he could find the truth in the lies that he’s woven, maybe he’d decided to bury his face in her hair, take in the way she smells of vanilla and spice, pull her closer until there’s nothing between them, dip his head and kiss her, taste her again.

He misses the way she tastes.

But he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t care anymore and she’s just another page in his history, just a girl he used to know. He doesn’t need her. Doesn’t need anyone. He’s fine all alone.

Liar.

fin


End file.
